The Higher You Go, The Farther You See

Day Two: Acquired skills curb fear and spur confidence at least your teammate at the end of the rope hopes so.

We spend the night at high camp (11,200 feet), a huddle of tents tucked deep in Garnet Canyon. The next morning we practice the mechanics of climbing. Tom and 22-year-old Ryan Hokanson show us how to tie an unshakable figure-eight knot, to fix the rope into our climbing harnesses, to belay (or brake) a partner, and to rappel down. Tom ingrains in us the intrapartner rock commands, such as the seven-word green-light sequence: "On belay? Belay on. Climbing? Climb on."

"You'll never forget your first tie-in," Tom promises as I delegate my welfare to the rope and Evan, my teammate on the other end. We simulate a belay: a technique for anchoring the rope in case your partner falls. First, I belay Evan. Standing above him with the rope wrapped around my body, I'm instructed to keep the rope taut as Evan climbs. "Don't let go with your brake hand," says Tom, patiently showing me for the umpteenth time how to hold the rope with my right hand as I retrieve slack with my left hand.

A few hours later, on a 250-foot knife-edge ridge called All Along the Watchtower, the lessons on the ground escape me. "Okay, okay, I got it," I yell to Ryan as I ready the belay. A storm is moving in and my partner Mark is cold and anxious to climb. I am more hopeful than sure. "No, no, no, you don't got it!" Ryan yells back. New lesson: Be sure.

Evening, Day Two: Confidence is high; prepare to be dumped on.

Though there may be little cause for it, I am optimistic. I didn't freak out or hurt anybody on training day. I didn't even fall back on the knot-tying crib sheet I'd stuffed in my climbing pack. As a group, we have a sense we now know what to expect.

Then the storm hits. In the high country, especially in August, electrical storms will suddenly barrel across an iridescent blue sky. You might get a taste of fickle mountain weather or the wind storm of the decade. We get the latter. Bruised clouds sweep over the Grand's Lower Saddle. "The thermal from hell," someone says. Then comes a wall of rain, driven by accelerating winds. Thunder boomers suffuse the canyon with an acrid odor.

The five of us pass the night in the cook tent. Heavyweight gusts slam into the two-ton tent, threatening to wing us into Garnet Canyon's chasm. Gallows humor prevails. "Belay on?" Si inquires.

Day Three: The hell with teamwork on summit day, you're on your own.

The trip changes on summit day. Up to now, it's been an inclusive experience. Today we're soloists, relying exclusively on our heads and our hearts. Those who show they can make it to the Grand's crown have every opportunity to do so. Those who don't are left behind, pretty much without apology.

An hour after Evan bows out, Jen and Mark call it quits. Jen is near-hypothermic from the knockdown headwinds. Mark would have been a cinch to bag the peak if he'd carried on alone. As Mark hustles up to us with food and rope, Tom congratulates him on his decision, "You're on your way to being a good husband."

Mark shrugs, "We came here to climb it together."

A short distance up the Lower Saddle, the wind drops abruptly. Dawn is breaking, and Grand Teton's shadow fans out over eastern Idaho. Tom is starting to goose the pace; the higher gear takes Si and me by surprise.

From this point on Tom coaxes Si from one rock shelf to the next, promising food and sweet rest. Each time Si nears a resting spot, Tom is off again. The time-saving ploy is effective, if infuriating. Tom and Si get to the west face above the Upper Saddle, the crux of the climb, shortly after Ryan and I do around 9:00 a.m.

The last I see of Si and Tom is at the second pitch, about an hour into our sheer-vertical ascent. I continue with Ryan along the planned route, neither of us suffering too badly from the cold. Si and Tom aren't doing as well. Si is slowing, and Tom is freezing up. He decides to detour from the easier-grade climb to the classic Exum Ridge, a warmer route because it faces east and gets the full morning sun. On the downside, it also features a 120-foot-long snow-crested ridge with 2,000-foot drop-offs. The only way to prevent a fall is to self-arrest: you stab the ice ax into the snowpack and pray it holds.

Si doesn't like what he sees. He outweighs Tom by 75 pounds. He has fallen once already, though Tom's belay saved him from nothing worse than a five-foot tumble and a scraped knee. Tom promises Si they'll be okay. Roped together, the pair baby step Friction Pitch without mishap. Then they tackle three more pitches. At 12:30 p.m., there's nothing left to climb: they've cleared the Grand's summit. Si's taken the "full tour," as Tom puts it. I miss them by moments. Fearing an ominous cloud bank approaching from the west, I'm already heading down with Ryan.